


Saturday

by CaffeinatedWriter



Series: Worthless and Waiting Verse [1]
Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeinatedWriter/pseuds/CaffeinatedWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with "I want to start a band."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday

It starts with “I want to start a band.”

Actually, no. The true beginning is much further back than that with too much energy, aggression, anger. 

It starts with a drum kit for Christmas, adult sized and hilariously too big. They tell him, with as much venom as they can, that they’re not going to pay for a child’s kit just for him to outgrow it and ask for another. Like he asked for this one in the first place.

It starts with beating away because he didn’t ask for it, and because he’s angry, and not for the music. Fuck the music. He’s nothing. He’s worthless. He’s angry. Nobody cares. Nobody listens.

He’ll make them listen. He’ll make such a terrible noise, such a commotion, that they can’t ignore him. So that they have to acknowledge his anger. It’s explosive. It’s disturbing. 

The neighbors bring it up to his parents and they dismiss it.

“Oh no,” they say, “He’s just too stupid to learn how to play them.”

He plays louder. He slams the sticks into the drums so hard, more than one pair snaps. It doesn’t make him happy, but it does exhaust him, and that’s all they’d wanted to achieve anyways. 

They soundproof what they dub ‘the music room’ at the request of neighbors, and he’s left to simmer in the violent sounds of his own emotion.

It starts with experimenting with sound. Angry, uncontrolled beating is good, great, fine, but there’s nobody listening, and he’s never been one to make a scene when no one’s around. He learns it can still be angry with purpose. Organized chaos. 

It evolves into something that sounds real.

He follows along with bands on shoddy mp3s he downloads onto a CD and to the music inside of his head. He drums along to the beat of his heart when he’s calm. When it’s too much. When his parents fight. When he thinks about Pete for longer than thirty seconds.

It starts with love letters. Not traditional poems of adoration, of course. He’s not like that. Not a soppy fuck like the dudes they read in English who compare their lovers to something as flawlessly perfect as nature. 

His are convoluted and insulting. Bold. Obsessive. Rhythmic. Angry.

Pete says, “This is incredible.”

Pete says, “Write more.”

Pete says, “I love you,” so he does.

It starts with writing down everything. Every thought. Every feeling. In notebooks and homework. Napkins. His arm. Pete’s arm. Carved into a styrofoam lunch tray with a plastic knife. 

It becomes a sort of release. If he can just get it out of him, maybe he won’t be so angry. Maybe he’ll be worth something.

It starts with “I wrote this.”

It starts with “Stay with me.”

It starts with “I want to start a band.”

—

They’re driving to get food at three in the morning, exhausted and delusional from hours of staring at computer screens, fingers numb from practicing and recording. 

Zoe’s voice is practically gone, but she screams when the first notes play from the radio of her shitty car, beating against the steering wheel out of excitement and the sleep deprived inability to compose an entire thought aloud.

Jimmy’s laughing, at her or out of happiness or some mixture of both. It sounds desperate and hysterical. They’re running out of money. They’ve been booed off stage at the local battle of the bands. Embarrassment and shame has filled their home, contaminated their air until every breath they take is filled with hopelessness and foolish drive.

Their fucking song is playing on a major music station at three in the fucking morning.

It’s nothing and everything. Pete’s tucked against his side in the back, mumbling “We did it. We did it. We did it,” into the flesh of his shoulder. Gary doesn’t think they’ve done anything, but it’s so great. So amazing. It’s three in the morning, but somebody is listening. They’re listening. It’s incredible. The air feels crisp and new and something like pride.

By some miracle, they get to some shitty diner that’s still open without dying. It’s tiny, and dirty, and smells of grease that makes their stomachs roll after living off of rice and slightly expired fruit for the past couple months. 

The fluorescent lighting is so fucking bright, and it’s competing with the smell at making them nauseous, but they slide into a booth anyways. If the past months have proved anything, they don’t back down.

There’s a quiet lull. They’re not ignoring each other, but there’s been so much noise in the past couple months, in the past forty-eight hours even, that it’s nice to just quietly exist together. The only waitress on staff is mumbling quietly to the cook, staring at them as if she’s concerned. 

They must look pretty awful if the graveyard shift is taking note of them.

Gary’s sucking down coffee like it’s his lifeline, and diner coffee is so shit, but it’s better than anything he’s put in his mouth in a while, except maybe Pete’s dick. 

The music in the background is some other alternative station than the one they were listening to in the car. It’s a weird thing to be playing in a diner, but they don’t complain. Zoe’s humming along while Jimmy attempts to stack as many sugar packets as he can on Pete’s head where it’s laying on the table.

The waitress comes over, setting down food they didn’t order when the song changes and Petey gasps, head springing up, knocking all the sugar packets to the floor. Instead of being annoyed like virtually any other night shift waitress, their waitress looks amused.

“That’s the third time tonight this song has come on. They’re this new band, I guess? Super good. They’re going somewhere for sure,” she laughs.

“How do you know? It’s late. Early. Nobody’s listening,” Gary says gruffly, challenging. He never was one to take a compliment sitting down. He overthinks too much for that. They all want to believe it, but he won’t let it stand unless it’s true.

She winks. “Take it from someone who works a lot of graveyards. They always test out this kind of music at night. Give it a couple hours. All the stations will be blowing up with it,” she promises, shrugging as she walks away.

There’s a split second of complete stillness before Zoe bursts into tears, though whether it’s over the song or the free cheese fries, they can’t be certain. Maybe both.

She’s right of course. Come noon, the song is playing almost on repeat on every major station in the area. People are calling in, freaking out, wondering who this band is. Where did they come from? What are their future plans? Will there be more?

They’re oblivious, passed out in the apartment with the blackout curtains pulled shut.

—

Zoe trades her shitty car in for a shitty van that has a shoddy heater, but it fits all of them and their equipment. There’s even enough room for two of the people not driving to curl in the back to sleep. 

It’s practically a Hilton for a band who never thought anyone outside of their circle of friends would ever want to hear them play. Pete gets a little vinyl sticker of their logo to slap on the back window. They stand outside, looking at it appraisingly. It’s a shit hole, but it’s their shit hole.

They still can’t afford to eat much most days. All their money goes towards getting merch printed in each city so they can afford gas to get to the next. 

Even if it weren’t the only thing keeping them going, Jimmy points out it’s important to fuel a fanbase. They all have experience as kids buying out a merch stand, just to feel part of something more. All the merch is pretty pricy, but somehow they’ve got kids dedicated enough to buy it anyways, and Gary makes a promise to himself that they’ll cut prices when they make it big.

They’re living like they’re dying. 

There are no hotel stops when you’re living out of a van. The closest they get to a shower is when a seedy venue lets them hose off in the back parking lot and that one time a fan and his girlfriend let them crash at their place. 

It’s disgusting. It’s inhumane. It’s exhilarating. 

The days driving blur into the nights playing blur into nothing until their first tour is over and somehow, they have enough money to make something more than an EP. An actual album.

Suddenly, it’s like a rewind of the months before, only worse and better. 

They’ve still got limited funds, and they’re still working nonstop in the dead of the night and early morning, but they’ve got people cheering them on now. Kids who believe in them. Who rely on them. Who think their music is something worth living for, and that’s crazy, and scary, and stupid, and so flattering.

They get picked up by a label. It creates as many issues as it solves, but they make it work. Their little fanbase grows into something significant, though Pete’s of the opinion that any number of fans is worth mentioning. 

Gary’s more realistic than that, but he holds the diehards close to his heart.

Somehow, in all of this, Jimmy and Zoe become a thing. Pete’s overjoyed, and Gary doesn’t understand. He thought they were already a thing, and if not, why were he and Pete banished to the couch so Jimmy and Zoe could hog the tiny twin bed crammed into the single room of their apartment? He voices these complaints, and Zoe laughs so loud, pulling him into a hug that he awkwardly accepts without reciprocation.

The fans find out about it over social media. Zoe’s Instagram or somebody’s tumblr, it’s not really clear, but they’re about as excited as Pete was. There’s fanart and stories and a hundred things that Jimmy is weirded out by. They become the power couple of the Top 40s chart. 

Gary finds it all really amusing.

—

Pretty soon they’re scheduling interviews all over the place. 

People are curious about them for all sorts of reasons, some of which are none of their business but the media feels entitled to answers anyways. They get asked about the music of course, but sometimes it feels like it’s a side note to Zoe and Jimmy’s relationship or what Pete likes to eat for breakfast.

Fans start to complain about how much Gary talks in interviews, especially when it’s because he’s poking fun at Pete. It’s ‘rude and unnecessary’. Why does he talk so much? He should learn his place and shut up so that the more relevant members can answer the questions everyone wants to know the answers to.

It doesn’t stop there. There’s all sorts of other comments. 

They should get rid of him, he’s just the drummer, the entire band would benefit from him being gone. What does he really contribute? Why does he hate Pete so much? He should be committed for some of the shit he says in interviews. Everything he says is weird and disconnected, and everyone’s pretty sure he’s on drugs. 

It’d hurt if Gary wasn’t use to it from people that matter a lot more than some sixteen year old girl behind a computer screen.

He knows about the complaints because he doesn’t believe in not googling yourself, and that applies to tumblr tags as well. He knows where the fanbase is, and regardless of what they say about him, he likes to see what they’re up to. Zoe, Pete, fuck, even Jimmy’s tags are full of really rad art, gifs, quotes. Ideas. Theories. Praises. Regardless of how they view Gary, they love the band, and Gary is the band, so he’s fine.

The one thing that gets to him is the girls that are scary obsessed with him because of quote unquote serial killer vibes, which is worrying and insulting in equal measure. And the kicker is that people agree with them. Not the blind adoration, but the fact that he’s probably crazy. 

He’s not fucking crazy and these are the same people saying their lyrics are the work of an enlightened soul. It’s bullshit.

Petey takes great amusement in it, kissing away his frown until it’s smoothed into something less grumpy.

“Don’t read it if it upsets you,” he says, like it’s that easy.

“It doesn’t upset me. I just think it’s bullshit. There wouldn’t be a band without me,” Gary mumbles, setting his laptop aside so Pete can crawl into his lap.

“You know that and we know that. You’re free to tell the world that, if you wanted, so why don’t you?” Pete asks, wrapping his arms his boyfriend’s neck.

They’re in a green room, waiting for some talk show host to finish up whatever drivel they’re spouting so she can ask them the same questions other interviewers have been asking them for two years now. Zoe and Jimmy are playing a special dirty edition of Heads Up! that Gary made for them and updates whenever he thinks of something new, snickering at each new word.

Other than being on stage, it’s moments like these that he truly appreciates what they’ve become. He’s getting paid right now to hang out with his friends while they wait. It’s the dream.

“God forbid Gary take credit for things that matter. He’s too busy bragging about how much better he dresses than you, Pete,” Zoe teases, sticking her tongue out when Gary scowls at her. “Seriously, bro. Maybe instead of pulling Pete’s pigtails all interview, you can take credit for once. I’m tired of deflecting questions about lyrics. Besides, he’s already sucking your dick; you don’t need to flirt anymore.”

Jimmy laughs, throwing an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders. They’ve been this horrible tag team since the day Gary introduced them and sometimes he really regrets it. 

He loves them. He’ll never let them know it. He’s pretty sure they’ve already released a song about it, but he isn’t sure. He’s always just thrown his lyrics at Pete and told him to make a song out of it.

Gary flips her off as a stage person comes in to fiddle with their mics and ushers them out of the green room to backstage. Her hand’s on Gary’s shoulder, assumingly to let him know it’s not time to walk on quite yet. He pushes down the urge to rip it off. A verbal cue would be enough, but she’s hardly paying attention to him anyways, so he’s sure it wouldn’t do much good to get upset.

Vaguely, he can hear the host give an introduction, but it’s buried under excited screaming. His shoulder is released and they’re pushed on stage. 

It’s nothing new. They hardly ever get nervous anymore. The stage is their home, regardless of what kind of show is happening on it.

He blanches when he realizes the couch they have on stage for them is entirely too small for four people to fit, and they’re all pretty small to begin with. 

It doesn’t take a genius to realize this is on purpose. They’re probably hoping Zoe will sit on Jimmy’s lap, but they obviously don’t know the kind of girl that Zoe is, and Pete’s left awkwardly standing once they’re settled.

“Come here, dumbass,” he huffs under his breath, pulling Pete around the waist until he tumbles into the space where his and Jimmy’s legs are touching. 

There’s a shocked sort of murmur from the crowd, which is stupid. He’s not going to let Petey stand there like an idiot, and no one’s getting forced into anyone’s lap just so fangirls will have something to post about later. It’s a position Pete finds himself in a lot at home anyway, when they’re gaming or watching a movie together or just hanging out as a family. 

He’s the smallest; it just makes sense.

“Oh, sorry about that. Guess we’re not equipped for this much talent in one room,” the interviewer giggles, and it’s so painfully fake. Gary bets anything she’s cursing them out in her head, but god forbid someone have to think of questions that don’t revolve around a situation they set up themselves.

“You’ve not very equipped at all, then, are you?” Gary asks dryly, flinching when Pete smacks him on the arm. Jimmy and Zoe are suppressing snickers behind their grins. Nobody supports Gary being a jackass in an interview more than them. 

Their PR manager, however, is not going to find humor in this, and he’s guaranteed a lecture after this. He doesn’t care. The people who love him, love his humor, and the people that hate him already hate him. It’s not getting any worse.

The interviewer seems affronted before she’s forcing on a grin almost immediately. He has to hand it to her, she’s a professional. Unfortunately, so is he, and she’s going to have to work a lot harder than this to get what she wants out of the interview.

“So, Worthless and Waiting, that’s quite the name, isn’t it?” she starts, and Gary has to hold back a groan. 

They’re all tired of answering this question. It’s been asked since day one, since the very first interview, but it seems like nobody feels the need to do research before they interview a band. They try to answer it differently every time just to offset the frequency that it’s asked, but they’re running out of ways to talk about it without being blunt.

“It’s-”

“That’s what we are,” Gary interrupts Zoe pointedly, staring at the interviewer as she blinks at him, waiting for him to clarify. He doesn’t, and it’s amusing to see her look lost for that split second before she’s right back to being the professional shit stirrer that she is.

“Oh…could-could you clarify that a bit more?” she asks, fingers drumming nervously against her thigh.

“We were discussing possible band names. Pete said it should be something that described who we were. As people, you know? And Jimmy, he said, ‘What are we?’. Worthless. And waiting. That’s what I told them, and that’s what we are. That’s why we named the band that. It’s not deep, it’s self-depreciating.”

He’s not lying. It’s the answer they always skirt around, but it’s the truth. The kids connect to it, and the adults click their tongues about overdramatic teenagers making noise. Gary doesn’t care. It’s his band, his feelings on himself. 

Nobody is going to take that away from him by reducing it to the melodrama of teenagers.

An awkward sort of silence takes over the room. He can feel eyes on him from every direction. The stares from the audience. From the interviewer. From his band. Petey tangles their hands together, unseen by the cameras. 

He doesn’t care if they can see. He was never hiding it.

“Right,” she says, voice tight. He doesn’t feel bad, though he’s sure he’ll be forced to apologize. Their manager is a pretty chill chick, but she refuses to burn a bridge. This girl though, she’s as much at fault for this as the producers are. They should know better.

She turns to Zoe, scrambling to save as much of the interview as she can.

“So, you recently released an album. Great stuff. Had a listen to it on the way here this morning,” she says, and Gary highly doubts it, but he remains quiet. He knows how deep to bury himself before there’s real trouble. The audience cheers, and she smiles prettily at the camera until they calm down. “But, did I spot some love songs?”

Zoe snorts. “I guess you could say that, yeah,” she says, sharing an amused grin with Jimmy.

“Sure, they’re kind of dark, kind of edgy, but something very sweet is intermingled. How about giving us some more insight on what that’s about?”

There’s another pause, making this possibly the worst interview in the history of their band, and Gary knows it’s coming before it happens. Pete does too if the hand squeeze is any indication, and he appreciates it as much as he hates it. 

Pete’s always got his back, but Gary’s a big boy accustom to disappointment. He doesn’t need someone holding his hand.

“I don’t know,” Zoe says, eliciting a gasp from the audience. “Gary writes the lyrics, always has, so you’d have to ask him about that.”

The interviewer is visibly shocked and the audience is beside themselves. Gary fights to remain blank faced. He doesn’t need their approval. He knows what they think about the album. The sales number and the reviews say everything. 

What they think of him is inconsequential.

“Really?” she asks, amazement coloring her tone. “Who are they about?”

She’s not even asking as an interviewer at this point. He can tell by her tone, and the way she’s looking at him like a puzzle. She wants to know as any other obtrusive fan who’s dismissed him until this point. It’s disgusting. It’s unprofessional. Gary hates her. He smirks. Fuck PR.

“You think I’m incapable of emotion?” he asks. He can feel Pete tense beside him, and he feels bad, but it’s unimportant in the grand scheme of things. He’s done worse than chew out an interviewer, and Pete’s yet to stop loving him.

“I didn’t mean-”

“You fucking idiots are all up Jimmy and Zoe’s relationship like they’re the cutest thing you’ve ever seen, praising the lyrics as perfection, like it encompasses everything they are, and it just proves you don’t know a god damn thing about them or me or what’s right in front of your fucking face,” Gary hisses, smiling at the horrified look on the interviewer’s face. 

There’s no way this is getting aired, but he can see quite a few camera phones in the audience, so he has no doubt the internet will be blowing up about it soon.

“I-”

“I wrote them for Pete. Everything I write is for Pete, but especially them. So don’t fucking forget it, because I’m tired of being asked the same trivial bullshit interview after interview. We just want to make music. And nothing has proved more than ‘making it’ that I’m still worthless, but I’m fucking tired of waiting. Pull your head out of your ass,” he says, pulling his mic off as he stands.

It’s very freeing. 

Zoe, Pete, and Jimmy remain on stage and finish the interview as damage control so something can be edited together and aired. Their manager sits with Gary in the green room, shooting him looks while she yells at people on the phone. 

Further damage control. He feels like a kid on time out. He feels validated.

His band storms into the room, the sound of producers freaking out in the hallway quieted with the closing of the door behind them. Even Pete can’t hold in a smile despite how truly out of line he was, and it’s like they’re back in time at the diner. Exhausted. Unappreciated. At the start of something better than before.

Pete says, “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me at my [tumblr](http://beathimbacktotheghetto.tumblr.com).


End file.
